Godric
by Mrs. C. N. Riddle
Summary: "I burst into flames in front of my own eyes. I repress a scream. It's not real I tell myself. I'm not dying; it's just the living nightmares again." - A story of transformation from insecurity to insanity through the eyes of a young man, as a mother reminisces about her estranged son over the course of a funeral. Rated M for a reason; Read at own discretion.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: This story is rated M for a reason. Story will eventually contain graphic images, violence, torture, implied child molestation, murder, and rape. Read at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: I have no rights to J.K. Rowling's intellectual property. Godric is of my own invention, but other characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter series are solely the property of J.K. Rowling.

Format: A line break indicates a change in point of view. Each chapter will be Godric's POV first and then Hermione's. Godric's POV takes place six months prior to Hermione's and moves forward into the present. Hermione will take place during the same moment in time throughout the story.

Summary: A story of transformation from insecurity to insanity through the eyes of a young man, as a mother reminisces about her estranged son over the course of a funeral.

**Godric**

_Chapter 1_

I stare into the mirror before me. I'm pale. Not that this is strange, but sometimes I wish I had more color. People wonder how I can find a way to criticize myself. I hear all too frequently about my positive attributes. Honestly, I don't see it. I'm tall, but too tall in my opinion. I would be thankful to lose two or three inches. I'm thin, a skeleton really. I guess you can see the outline of some muscle tone on my chest and stomach, but does that really imply physical strength, or am I just drastically lacking in body fat? Truly, I think I missed a dose of testosterone during puberty because my chest and stomach are almost completely hairless.

At least I have my face. I don't really grow facial hair, but I don't think it would suit me if I did. I watch as I trace one of my abnormally long fingers over my jaw line. I look older than fifteen in my face; I'm reminded constantly by the girls at school. I really can't complain about my hair. The black waves never disobey, whether I want to look professional or like I just got out of bed. Tonight, I've chosen the former. It's an important night.

I remember the real reason I am standing here in front of this mirror scrutinizing every detail of my physique. I really don't look anything like him. Why am I scanning my features so intently? Why am I trying so hard to find a resemblance?

I guess I don't want it to be true, deep down…however deep that may be. The other option is hard to face. But look at me! It must be true. Yet, I don't want my entire life to be a lie. I don't want to admit that the only person I can trust is the man who I have been taught all my life to fear and despise.

I scan my body again. No, not a single freckle. My hair is jet black; as far from red as can be. My eyes are my mother's, a plain brown. At least that rules out adoption. The facial structure is entirely wrong and inconsistent with those of my younger siblings. The only thing I share is the last name. Weasley.

Quite frankly, the name never seemed to fit. Ask anyone at school. The name has caused me just as much trouble as the man in my life who bares it. I wanted to blend in at Hogwarts. I spent my childhood sticking out from my family. They must know the truth. Why else would they treat me like I'm not truly a Weasley? But it really isn't everyone. My mother, thank Merlin for my mother. Without her, I fear I would be a different person.

But am I still the same person I was before I came back from Christmas break? Sure, I've always felt out of place; the stares when my name was called for the Sorting five years ago come back to me, blinding the mirror image in front of me as the memory rushes forward. My appearance stunned them of course. I look like no Weasley ever before me. The look of confusion on everyone's face when I was sorted into Slytherin may never leave my subconscious. Always sitting in the back of my mind, reminding me like a little alarm I can never silence, screaming, "You're different…You're different." But could the meeting have changed my perspective?

I shake my head. I don't like to think about it. But my mind drifts to the offer. Perhaps it can be silenced, perhaps He can make it go away. I've been offered a mask, a removal of my name, a chance to become a nobody. To become faceless, nameless, it's all I've wanted for as long as I can remember.

My name. I hear it being called from down stairs. _Dinner time, Godric_. My name. Oh, the irony. Did they realize the irony in it? How could it not be intentional? Was it chosen as a talisman to ward off His evil? Or was it more of a metaphorical middle finger to the true blood running through my veins?

I take a deep breath, start to button up my white cotton shirt. I move slowly, carefully sliding each button into place. I'm stalling. I almost forget to take note of the lack of pushing and shoving outside my door. My younger brother and sister are not here to race each other down the stairs to dinner. They are with my grandmother and grandfather. One of the reasons why I chose this night. They didn't need to hear the truth; they're too young to understand. I breathe again. It's amazing the amount of stress that can be released in a single exhale. I pretend the condensation forming on the mirror is the last of my hesitation. It is time to stop stalling. It is time for confrontation.

* * *

Godric was such a lovely child. So quiet, so well-behaved. He learned so quickly. I remember the first time he used magic. He was three years, two months, and 25 days. All of us were in the backyard. Ron, Harry, Ginny, they all sat enjoying the first beautiful sun of the spring. I sat with my husband, near the shade, with sleepy eyes. I always had a problem with Godric's silence. It had a tendency to worry me more than the occasional crashes and bangs that occurred with Rose and Hugo later on. He was always disappearing. The previous night I had spent hours trying to find him. I had gone in to check that he was fast asleep to find the blankets without their usual mound of breathing cotton. I panicked and began ripping every piece of the house apart in search of my little boy.

It was Harry who had found him. Godric sat below the oak tree outside in the full moon light. The way his pale skin shone in the night was so eerie. For a moment, I wasn't just frightened for him, but of him. But then his little voice rang out over the quiet night. _Hi, Mommy. _It was so faint, so innocent. I immediately rushed forward to my little boy, sat down beside him and held him close. He wrapped his little arms around me, but made no inclination to be brought inside. So we sat there and talked of what stars were made, of what was for lunch tomorrow, of why he wasn't allowed to go past the elm tree across the yard.

Godric was sitting again at the base of that great oak on that warm, spring day. I was only half aware of what he was doing. I recall a stick in his hand, muttering incoherent words and waving it around like 'Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Harry do.' My eyes had started to drift shut. Those rays were so soothing. But then a shake quickly jolted me out of my respite.

"Hermione! Look!" Ginny was shaking me, pointing up in the tree where my three-year old son was now sitting twenty feet above the ground. He was holding a squirrel, stroking its fur as it struggled to free itself from the tiny fingers.

"Mommy! Look what Godic found!" His little giggle and absence of r's made him seem so much younger, so adorable, but a cry soon rang out as the squirrel decided it had had enough of struggling and clamped its tiny teeth into my baby's flesh. The squirrel scurried forward across the branch Godric was straddling and jumped to a neighboring tree. A comic look of shock and disappointment was upon my son's face at the betrayal and loss of his new furry friend. He turned down to me, stretched out his arms, and began to cry.

I felt so much love for him in that moment. Such a warm feeling of motherly pride as my baby cried for me. He used magic for the first time; he wanted to be with the squirrel and he made it happen. But now he needed me. I vowed I would always be there to protect him. But haven't I failed?

I am snapped back to reality as I realize Harry is done talking. Ginny rises and hugs her husband as he walks back to his seat beside me. Both of their faces are stained with the tears of the last few days, and it is now Ginny's turn to go up and say a few words. I look up at the clear blue sky, the branches of the old oak tree swinging in the breeze. Little leaves causing dancing shadows in a mix of light and dark upon the faces of everyone present. I can not help but think it is a beautiful day for a funeral.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rated M: **This is the last chapter that will be rated T; the M rating will apply to all following chapters. Read at own discretion.

**Disclaimer: **JK Rowling is the true author of Harry Potter; I am just merely a peon basking in her shadow.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

I try to feed myself. Mum has cooked lemon peppered chicken breast and rosemary potatoes. Green beans lay untouched, pushed off to the side of my plate. I am not a fan of green beans. I look at the food. She has made this for me. She has done so much for me. Am I really going to bring this up now?

Mum is to my left at the end of the table and Father is to my right facing her. Two vacant seats are on either side of me. Rose and Hugo are usually seated there. Lucky me gets to be the barrier between their constant bickering and pinching whenever I'm home. Uncle Harry is sitting across from me with Aunt Ginny beside him.

Ideally there would be more seats at the table, but Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny do not have any children. My understanding is that they do not find the world safe enough to bring a child into it. Not with Harry's status under the current Ministry at least. But they hope that will change soon.

Harry and Ginny have lived with us as long as I can remember. Nobody in the home has a job though. It wouldn't be safe. Harry has a small fortune that we live off of. Every once in a while he disappears past the elm tree out front in a magically conjured disguise. The elm tree I've feared all my life. My mum used to tell me stories of dangerous monsters and scary men who would want to hurt us waiting on the other side. I understand now that there are just wards put in place to keep us safe. But there are scary men who want to hurt us. Only two weeks ago, I met one face-to-face.

I am picking at my food again. Pushing pieces back and forth on the plate, conscious of the little screechy sounds the fork is making as it crosses over the ceramic. I can see out of my periphery that Father has stopped eating and is staring at me bitterly. I know it is childish, but it only makes me want to do it more.

I have never gotten along well with my father. Perhaps I really shouldn't call him that. It's an old habit in my head, but I have stopped whenever I address him. My mum was angry with me when I started calling him Ron last year. Said something about 'disrespecting my father.' A lick of flame touches the inside of my abdomen when I think about it after what I know now. Disrespecting _my_ father. She knows the truth. How could she say that to me?

It's not like he ever treated me as a son. More like a disgusting parasite, sucking the attention from his wife, and tainting his home with evil. I was old enough to remember what it was like after Rose was born. I had grown up assuming my fath…Ron was just a cold, distant person. Or maybe he just hated kids? I remember pondering all the different excuses for why he treated me like something repulsive on the bottom of his shoe. But then, when I was 8 years old, Rose was born. I was excited. I had a new baby sister and the look of happiness upon my mum's face made me ecstatic. My mum is an angel when she smiles. But then I saw Ron's face. How warm and proud he looked. Growing up I had dreamed of what that face shining down upon me must look like, and there it was in front of me.

Some children might have taken it out on their new little sibling, been jealous of the attention they were receiving, but I loved Rose. I used to play with her little red curls, try to make her giggle with funny faces and 'forbidden' magic tricks, levitating her toys into her crib when she cried or making her dolls dance a routine for her when she'd been awoken by a nightmare.

No, I took it out on myself. There was something wrong with me that Ron didn't approve of, there was a reason why he was never proud of me. I was different.

"Will you just eat your damn dinner already!" He's yelling at me. I look up at him passively. Take a potato and, as dramatically as possible, pop it into my mouth. He's glaring at me. Now this is the face I'm used to. I look down again at my food. My mum has stopped eating now as an uncomfortable silence permeates the table. She's staring at Ron. She doesn't like it when he yells at me. But she's never had the courtesy to give me a reason why he yells. And she _knows_ the reason. This thought makes me angry. I decide to go for it.

"Ron's not my father is he?" My mum drops her fork like I just transfigured into a grotesque spider before her eyes. Harry and Ginny are exchanging nervous looks. Ron hasn't stopped glaring at me. It's silent for a few minutes. I just stare at my mom, waiting patiently for the shock of the question to settle, and the truth to come forward. I will not be lied to anymore. She's calming down now. She's looking at Ron and back to me, as though she wants him to help her. Had they really planned to never tell me? The silence is excruciating at this point.

"No, I'm not." Ron finally breaks the silence. His voice is entirely passive, no emotion. The only other voice I know him to have besides the yelling. My mum looks like she's fighting back tears. This is too soon for her. I should have waited. No, I'm going to be selfish for once. I needed to know.

"Why have you kept this from me?" I'm looking at Mum again. She's not avoiding eye contact anymore. She's looking at me with a mix of shock and confusion. I've asked the wrong question. She's suspicious suddenly. I mean the clues are not hard to pick up on once somebody exits denial to recognize he's no relation of mine, but I should have asked "Who is?" She knows I know. I didn't want to have to explain myself, explain the meeting I had only two weeks ago. Harry is scanning my face just as intently.

"What are you hiding, Godric?" My mum speaks slowly. This question makes me angry.

"What am _I_ hiding?" My anger is evident. She wasn't expecting this response. Perhaps she was expecting me to shy away from the question, act guilty for finding out on my own. But no, I'm not the one who should feel guilty right now. "Answer my question."

"Don't talk to your mother like that!" Ron is yelling again. Such a surprise that he's not helping the situation. I'm starting to lose control of my tongue, and I can feel raw power building in me. I'm not usually an angry person, but I lose control of my power pretty fast when pushed. I try to quell it, but with Ron here, it's not going to be easy.

"Ron! Stay out of this right now!" Mum can see it. She knows I'm about to lose all composure. She doesn't want her husband to get hurt. She knows I can hurt him. We're still glaring at each other though.

"Godric." I break the eye contact with this imposter of a father. I turn to my mother. I want to hear what she has to say, before I make my ultimate choice.

"What you have to understand, honey, is that we were only trying to protect you." I was expecting this response, and I'm not happy with it. It isn't enough.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" She's pondering the question. Personally, I thought it was a simple 'yes' or 'no.'

"I had intended to when you came of age." Another predictable response. For some reason all this predictability is making me angrier. I still feel as though there is no truth, nothing I didn't already know.

"I met Him." It comes out before I can stop it. The uncomfortable silence is back. Mum wasn't expecting this. I get a strange feeling of pride looking at the shock on all of their faces. I had my own secret, and it's bewildered them.

"How could you betray our family like that?" Unfortunately, Ron was the first to talk. I'm dumbfounded.

"How have I betrayed the family?" I'm confused. I don't understand what he's saying. I look to my mother. Her eyebrows are furrowed; she doesn't know what he is talking about either.

"You went to Him. You're already a Death Eater aren't you?" His voice is filled with loathing and repulsion. My jaw literally drops in surprise. I go to _Him_? I must look comical, and he's left me completely speechless.

"Ron! How can you suggest such a thing!" My mum is angry, but I hear hurt in her voice.

"Oh come on, Hermione! I predicted it all along. I knew the little bastard would grow up to be just as evil as the blood that's in him. He looks just like him, Harry says it all the time! And he's just been manipulating you like the slimy Slytherin he is!" I'm hurt. I stare down at my plate as he yells. I foresaw him ruining this somehow, but like this? I don't know how to react and I can hear my mother start to cry. I've hurt her. Does this make me evil?

* * *

Ginny is still talking up at the podium, and all I can think about is how clearly I remember the night Godric left. After six months, it hasn't faded and it probably never will. Not now.

It started and ended with Ron. I want to forgive him for the way he treated Godric as I watched him grow up. He never saw the sweet, intelligent little boy I saw. He only saw Him. And Godric did look like Him. Harry reminded me all too often. Except the eyes, he always noted. He had my eyes.

I try to understand how Ron could have looked into my eyes and seen beauty in me and look into those little clones and see irrefutable evil. Sometimes I fear Ron created something that Godric wasn't born with because of what he thought he saw. How tragically ironic.

Godric was nothing like his biological father. Besides his exceptional magical abilities and Hogwarts house, I know his personality was all his own. He was modest and quiet. When he was made a Prefect, he didn't boast. He never tried to draw attention to himself. His grades were remarkable, and he had my thirst for knowledge and love of reading. He could be charming when he wanted to be, but I fear his isolation from children his own age made him rather socially awkward. He didn't like social situations and didn't really know how to behave in them. Even when we had family over, he stayed to himself. But the one thing that made him so very different from that monster was his ability to love. Godric's eyes shone with love every time he looked upon me when he was young. He would sit in my lap underneath the old oak for hours and smile up at me as we talked, melting my heart every time. He loved his little sister, Rose. He would do whatever he could to help me when she was a baby. I am sure he loved Hugo, but Hugo did not come along until after Godric started Hogwarts, and I fear he missed out on a time to bond with his little brother.

Godric starting Hogwarts had been a big deal in our household. Harry and I had been wary of it. It was dangerous; he was in the open, away from the safety of our wards. What if someone found out which Weasley he was connected to? He could jeopardize us all. But Ron, oh how Ron insisted he be sent to Hogwarts. I see now he had only wanted him out of the house. He never liked how much Rose looked up to her big brother. He was afraid of how she would be influenced.

Rose was devastated when she returned from Molly and Arthur's to find Godric gone. We couldn't tell her the full truth just yet of course. She didn't need to know about where he went or why. But when she was told he had left and may never return, she cried for hours. She still calls for him when she gets nightmares. But she must really understand now that he is never coming back.

If only Ron had kept his mouth shut. If only he hadn't provoked Godric. He'd screamed at him, accusing him of going to his biological father, of becoming a follower at the age of fifteen. I never got to hear the truth. I will never know how Godric found out who his real father was. If Godric sought him, or if he was recruited at Hogwarts like so many stories in the _Daily Prophet _read these days.

The window panes had all burst simultaneously. He had pushed Godric too far. He stood up and screamed at Ron. Told him how sick he was of being treated like a monster. How he was leaving now, going to 'where monsters like me are accepted.' I tried to stop him. I grabbed his sleeve, tried to pull him away from the door. Ran after him as he headed toward the old elm. Ron had followed me, held me back. I tried desperately to break free, I didn't want to lose my baby boy. He yelled after Godric. Screaming about how at least we could forget about him now and not have to worry about what a disappointment he'd become. How he was dead to us. I turned around and shoved Ron off of me. His words disgusted me. I turned around to my little boy who had stopped just beyond the elm outside of the wards. He was staring at me, like I had been the one who said those nasty words. I could see his eyes, _my _eyes, and the hurt behind them. And then I saw the young man before me change. The hurt quickly fade and coldness replace it. And without another word, I watched as my boy disappeared, as my worst nightmare came true all those years ago when I told him never to cross the old elm where all the scary men could hurt him.

* * *

A/N: I would like to give thanks to Auntleona0 for all her help! Without her I would not have had the confidence or determination to post this brainchild of mine! And for those of my readers who are fans of the Vampire Diaries, she has many lovely stories for your reading pleasure so check her out! As a reassurance, all the chapters in this story are completed and ready for posting, so expect very regular updates. As always, R&R!


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning:** Chapter is rated M.

**Disclaimer:** Godric is mine, everything else is JK Rowling's, of course.

**Chapter 3**

I have been a Death Eater for three months. Three months from my family, from my mother. I celebrated my birthday two weeks ago. Alone. I wonder how my mum spent it. Did she treat it as a day of mourning? Did she ignore it completely, pretending I don't even exist? Do I really exist anymore? The question pops into my head in that same voice that rings like an alarm every once in a while. Does Godric exist, or am I just this mask I hold between my hands? Who am I when I put it on? Surely I am not Godric anymore.

Would she recognize me behind this grotesque thing? Would she recognize me if she knew the things I'd done? The things I'd seen? Most importantly would she forgive me? Can I forgive myself?

These questions plague me. Someone has put them on repeat inside my head. I struggle for answers. I want them so desperately. But who can supply them? Excellent. Another question.

Harry used to say I should have been a Ravenclaw. I ask too many questions, seek answers for things that are better left unanswered. That night three months ago really shines as a prime example.

I am miserable here in Malfoy Manor. The people, if they can even be called that, make me sick to my stomach. Poor hygiene, complete lack of manners, and a good portion of them have been stunned a few too many times. Not to mention the filth that comes out of their mouths. That nasty word for Muggleborn…what have I gotten myself into?

I was inducted into the Inner Circle too quickly for me to second guess my choice. When I felt the regret, it was too late. Much of Slytherin House has a nasty habit of glamorizing the Death Eaters. Everyone aspires to be part of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. To be in his presence, know his power, learn from him. And yet here I am, and I wonder 'where is the glamour?'

For once a question I can answer! There is no glamour in torture, no glamour in death, and all of those ambitious little snakes haven't the slightest what they are talking about. I have seen things, terrible things that play graphically before my eyes if I let my mind wander.

I will never forget my first raid. The target was a young man. I don't remember his name…I find it is better to immediately forget the names. He had helped a Muggleborn girl escape after a proceeding at the Ministry, and a spy had determined his location. Our orders were to kill, but not until after he suffered for his poor choice.

Bellatrix Lestrange had been there, along with her brother-in-law, Rabastan, and that hideous werewolf, Fenrir Greyback. I grew up hearing their names. The insanity of Bellatrix, her murder of my uncle's godfather, Sirius. I had heard about the lack of mental stability in the Lestrange family due to inbreeding. And I knew the rumors of Fenrir's taste for human blood outside of the full moon cycle. I should have known immediately how horrific the night was going to be when I found out who would be accompanying me. But as Bellatrix put it, "the Dark Lord wanted me to learn from the best."

I had been in charge of removing the wards. They were simple spells for me and I knew why I had been given such an easy task. I was along to observe. This was a learning exercise. But not like in school; people don't die in demonstrations at Hogwarts. With the wards down, Bellatrix didn't hesitate to blow off the door of the quaint little cottage hideout. I barely had a chance to admire the woodwork before it was blasted into pieces before my eyes. A little girl's scream pierced the night. Oh no. My heart stopped. Not a child, not with Fenrir here.

Rabastan had no problem disarming the stunned occupants. The man we sought was standing in front of his family, arms spread as though they made any difference in fending off four Death Eaters. A little girl cowered in the arms of her mother behind him, tears streaming down both of their faces. What are their thoughts, now that they know they are about to die? The question still burns in my head every raid in which I participate.

I was instructed to watch what happened and learn. But it felt like _I_ was the one being tortured. I was forced to watch as Bellatrix used the Cruciatus Curse on the man. He writhed on the ground, eyes rolling in the back of his head, while his wife and child screamed for her to stop. She laughed. I felt vomit in the back of my throat, but that wasn't even close to the worst this family had yet to endure.

Fenrir pried the child from her mother's arms. The poor thing could not have been more than seven years old. Rose's age. The vomit threatened again as she screamed. Her mother was being held back by Rabastan. She was trying so hard to free herself, so hard to reach her little girl, but a monster was holding her back. I was reminded of the night I left my home. Would I be punished for vomiting here?

Bellatrix had restrained the man, who was now covered in blood, sweat, and tears. The blood seemed to be coming from his eyes. Had his vessels burst? No, Bellatrix had removed his eyelids. He was being forced to watch what was to come next. And, in a way, wasn't I in the same position?

The daughter was the first to meet her fate. Fenrir had pinned her tiny body to ground with his inhuman claws, puncturing the skin, causing blood to ooze out and stain her white night gown. She was screaming for someone to save her. The man and woman were begging him to stop, but the protest only seemed to fuel the sick delight Greyback received from the writhing child. I closed my eyes when I saw his other clawed hand begin to run up the white gown. The shrieks from the father and mother drowned out the daughter's scream, but I vowed to keep my eyes shut. What if this was Rose? Vomit was in my mouth, but I couldn't open that either. I didn't want any more punishment than this.

The girl's screams didn't last long, and I could tell by the cries of the mother and father, that she was gone. I opened my eyes. It was hard to tell that the night gown had been white only moments before. Her jugular had been ripped open and it was all the more evident in the amount of blood down Fenrir's front. I could have coped with the blood, but those eyes…her empty eyes were gazing at me. I fear if I would have opened mine sooner, those little orbs would have been pleading with me to intervene. Would I have stopped him?

I could not tear myself from those little eyes still moistened with residual tears. I watched them as Rabastan set fire to the wife. Watched the flames from the burning woman dance in the convex glassy surfaces now void of the life that fought so hard against that brute of a man. I hardly listened as Bellatrix giggled the Killing Curse directed at the man who was forced to endure the molestation and violent murder of his daughter and the burning alive of his wife. Neither of these woman had anything to do with the choice the father had made.

Bellatrix had to practically drag me from the scene, away from those eyes. She was positively giddy, and I would soon learn that she was always like this after a fresh kill. I was directed to cast the Dark Mark. I did it mindlessly. When I returned to the Manor, returned to my quarters, I was finally able to release all the sickness that had welled up in my throat.

I sat on the bathroom floor, my head rested on the toilet for more than an hour. I wondered vaguely if my mother would see the _Daily Prophet _article citing the attack. I wondered if there would be a picture of the Dark Mark shining above the torn apart cottage. Would she know it was I who cast it?

I fell asleep that night on the bathroom floor, those flaming eyes marring what should have been a welcome respite.

* * *

I became quickly obsessed with the _Daily Prophet_ after Godric left. I kept clippings of every raid, every death, every mention of the Death Eaters. Ron and Harry used to avoid the room in which I kept them. They called me 'morbid,' accusing me of developing a fascination with death. They didn't understand.

In the following months, I had never seen Ron happier throughout our whole marriage. It was as though a weight had been lifted, a shadow had been removed. But that shadow fell upon me. I had never truly known depression. I had never truly experienced the kind of grief a mother feels when she loses a child, and after seeing that coldness wash over my little boy's eyes when he left, I knew I had lost my Godric forever.

But somehow the clippings were like pieces of him. I was trying to build a picture of what my son was now experiencing. That is if what was left was still my son. It was my way of being with him through it all. I scanned the papers, scanned every obituary to make sure my little boy was still alive. But did I even have any evidence to suggest he _was_ still alive?

I couldn't think about it. Of course he was alive. I was convinced of it. But my conviction didn't stop the obsession. I would risk my life sneaking outside of the wards every morning to purchase a paper in disguise. Meticulously, I clipped each article and pasted them in books chronologically. Every time I saw a picture of that Mark glittering in the sky, I wondered if my baby boy had stood under it. Did he hurt people? Was he a murderer like his father?

I am still trying to forgive Ron for what happened, but it is so much harder now. Godric had tried so hard to win over his affections. My mind wanders to Godric's fifth birthday. Harry had bought him a mini broom, because I had finally agreed to let him try his first game of Quidditch. Godric would spend hours in the backyard quietly watching Harry, Ginny, and Ron play on clear summer days. He had wanted a broom since he was three, but I had waited until he was five to finally give him permission. He wanted to be like Daddy, soaring up above the trees on his broom. The look on his face when he unwrapped it was something I will never forget. I couldn't help but smile through my worry at the pure joy that my son's face portrayed.

Godric had immediately dragged Harry and Ron out to play with him so he could try his first time on a broom. Harry had helped him on it, standing next to him in case he fell. I stood on the sidelines with Ginny, biting my nails with worry. What if it went too high? What if he fell?

And he did fall. Many times. It was so sad to watch his face fall every time he tried, but he refused to give up. He would frown every time, but he would immediately get back on his feet and try again. The poor boy was dreadful. I felt terrible for him. I fear he had inherited his poor flying and lack of coordination from me. Eventually it grew dark outside, and Godric sat on the ground worn out and frustrated. Harry gave him a little hug, told him they would try again tomorrow. Godric had looked up at Ron, obviously in need of some reassurance, but Ron had looked at him blankly, saying, "Give it up, kid." He turned and walked inside.

I watched as my son's face fell further, and tears began to well in his eyes. Harry and Ginny headed inside and I sat down beside my little Godric. He looked up at me and said in the tiniest, broken voice I have ever heard, "Daddy will never be proud of me now." My heart broke.

I wish I could have reassured him, comforted him, let him know that he was loved, and that I would always be proud of him. But was I proud now?

My depression has harmed everyone in my family. I fear I neglected Rose and Hugo as time went by. I found myself incapable of keeping my composure. I would burst into tears while cooking dinner or reading the children a bedtime story I had once read Godric. When this happened I would leave Ginny in charge. I fear she became more of their mother than I could be. Perhaps it was better for them, but the guilt will never go away.

I became an insomniac. Sleep was filled with terrible dreams, horrific dreams, of death and torture, pictorial representations of what I feared Godric was experiencing every day. I stopped sleeping full nights. I would walk outside and sit underneath our oak tree, hugging myself, and letting the tears fall freely. I would remember all the times we had sat there, me stroking his hair until he fell asleep in my arms. I would pretend he was that little boy again, talk to myself like he was there listening. Sometimes, I would sit on his bed, stare into the mirror across the room. I saw my lone reflection staring back at me, but I was hoping he would appear behind me to let me know he was okay, to comfort me in my loss. Each time the same question plagued me. What did he see now when he looked in the mirror?


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: Chapter includes rape. Read at own discretion.**

**Chapter 4**

I'm paler. The bags under my eyes are expanding. I poke and prod them, wondering if I can make them recede. It's from the nightmares, of course. I don't really sleep anymore. It's terrifying. After almost six months, I thought I would get used to it. But now I must get used to the nonexistent blood I see seeping through the walls everywhere I go, the corpses glaring at me with their lifeless eyes as I stand in front of the mirror hugging myself. I'm going mental from the lack of sleep. My nightmares have started to flood into my reality. As long as I still grasp that concept, I may have a chance to return to full sanity someday.

Bellatrix has tried to convince me that using the Killing Curse would make the demons go away. That in Azkaban, she had no way to fight off the fiends and was nearly sucked into a nightmarish world forever, until she could kill again. It kept the demons at bay. I know I must be going insane when Bellatrix's mental babble begins to sound plausible.

Though she has a point; I have yet to kill that way. Six months and I have managed to avoid using the Killing Curse. Of course, I have tortured people, sometimes to death. I have used the Cruciatus Curse on men and women until insanity took over. I have removed limbs in order to retrieve information, allowing blood to flow freely until I received what I desired, set alight houses filled with live families after magically sealing all exits, slowly poisoned individuals until their insides had liquefied while their spouses watched in horror. I am a murderer, but there is something inside me telling me I could not use the Killing Curse, that I would not mean it, that it would fail.

Death is such a common occurrence for me now, I am still surprised by how affected I am every time I see it. I vomited after every raid for four months. If children are involved, I still do. I'm only sixteen, but I've killed more people than some Death Eaters in their thirties have.

The Dark Lord expects more of me than most of his other followers. I am in no way a right hand man, and I don't want to be, but I am sent out on the more important missions, the ones that he can't afford to have fucked up. Generally, these are the more gruesome murders, but what am I supposed to do? Leave? That isn't an option.

Some of the Death Eaters, the ones who know where I come from, do not trust me. They believe I am a spy for the other side. But how could I be? Ron said it himself…I'm dead to them. They don't seem to understand why I haven't brought Harry to them, now that they know he didn't merely disappear all those years ago. That he has been in hiding, helping to raise a traitor. But the Dark Lord understands. He recognizes that I am not the Secret Keeper, that Harry is, and that it is unwise to send a sixteen year old boy into a house full of completely trained wizards. Perhaps they have cast a new Fidelis Charm anyway. But I fear that someday he will change his mind and ask this of me, if Harry ever truly becomes a threat to him again. What will I do when that happens?

I burst into flames in front of my own eyes. I repress a scream. It's not real I tell myself. I'm not dying; it's just the living nightmares again. I stay alit, but I do not feel pain. I continue to look into my skeletal reflection. I'm starting to resemble the Dark Lord every day. I don't even need all the dangerous magical transformations. Starvation and insomnia seem to be doing the trick. The flames seem to exacerbate the redness of my already bloodshot eyes. All I need is the slitted pupils, and then it'll be like father, like son.

I make a resolution. I will make this stop. I will make the nightmares go away.

* * *

The funeral is coming to a close. The sun has begun to set back behind that accursed elm that sticks above the home behind me. I am thinking about removing it tomorrow. Maybe burning it. Watch the flames lap up the symbol of his departure from my world. Oh, how I've become so tragically dramatic in the last few months.

It is almost my time to talk. I am not ready. To give this address means I must accept what has transpired. I must recognize that Godric isn't coming back, that I must ultimately forgive Ron for what happened, and move on because I have two children who need their mother. It won't be long before they start Hogwarts, and when they do, I will convince Harry that I am ready to begin our quest to destroy all of the Horcruxes again. Because ultimately, the real man to blame for all this grief in my life is Him.

I try not to recall the events that happened over sixty years ago, but the incident never seems to lose its clarity when it permeates my consciousness. Ironically, the day Godric was conceived was the worst day of my life. My virginity was taken against my will, painfully, by Him. As I sit here in the brilliant sun, the scene unwillingly plays before my eyes.

I had been captured. A foolish mistake on the quest for Horcruxes. There was a hole in the wards I had cast around our camp; I had been careless. Snatchers had found us, grabbed me from behind outside of our tent. I was able to scream before my mouth was covered. I had been able to warn Harry and Ron. They had escaped, but not before the Snatchers had seen who my companions had been. I was taken directly to the Malfoy Manor, directly to Lord Voldemort.

I was dragged from my dingy cell in the dungeons where they had been keeping me in between episodes of torture and solitude. They wanted to know where Harry was, what he was doing. Two Death Eaters had blindfolded and gagged me. The anticipation of what was going to happen was torture enough on my imagination, and when we stopped, I thought I had reached the place in which I was finally going to die. I was chained against a stone wall, not by my wrists or ankles, but by my throat. I was thankful that my feet touched the ground, but my blindfold and gag remained in place. I heard the door shut and footsteps approaching me as they echoed across the walls. They stopped suddenly, and I could feel warm breath by my ear.

"You know, you're quite pretty for a Mudblood." I whimpered at the undertones in Voldemort's voice. I tried to throw out my unrestrained arms to push him away, but he was much quicker. He grabbed my wrists and slammed them roughly onto the stone, causing me to give a muffled squeal, and pinning the rest of my body down with his. He was stronger than I had expected for someone so lean, but I tried to struggle out from under him. I panicked as I felt the chain at my throat start to tighten.

"The more you struggle the tighter it gets." I froze. I didn't want to be strangled, I didn't want to die, but his voice whispering in my ear suggested that I may have been better off dead anyway. He removed his hands from my wrists, but they remained immobile. I felt the pressure of his body against mine disappear, but I still could not see him. My breathing began to pick up as I felt my white cotton shirt begin to unbutton. The cold air hit my skin and I could feel the exposed areas burst into goosebumps. I suddenly smelled smoke, and a slight tickling sensation upon the area my bra covered, but just as suddenly, I realized I was no longer wearing a bra as my nipples hardened from the abrupt exposure to the chill. He must have burned it off.

Tears began to well in my eyes as I stood there with my breasts completely exposed, unable to see what was happening, where my attacker had gone. The silence was torment. The chains around my neck seemed to tighten ever so slightly with each shiver. I feared if I stayed there too long my body would betray me, and I would suffocate.

Panic seeped through me as I felt the same sensation underneath the tattered remains of my skirt. He was burning my underwear too. I felt the delicate touches of ash as they floated down between my legs. This was it. There was no doubt what his intentions were, and I was trapped and helpless.

I was completely unprepared for the pain of one of his unnaturally long fingers roughly penetrating my virginity. The gag muffled my scream, but the tears flowed down my cheeks from under my blindfold. Every time he moved a new jolt of pain would shot through my abdomen.

But there was no relief when he removed the finger. A dull ache was left behind, and the struggling from the pain had made the chains uncomfortably tight around my throat. I knew the worst was yet to come.

I was surprised when the gag was removed. I let out a sob. My arms had begun to ache from the awkward position they had been placed, but I wasn't going to beg. He didn't deserve that satisfaction. And then I could feel his breath upon my cheek, so close to my mouth. His body suddenly pressed against mine, only providing a minute relief from the cold air.

And then he entered me. I let out an unrestrained scream as I felt myself tear. It was pain I had never experienced before and I felt it anew with each thrust. I felt like I was crumbling into a million pieces. I told myself not to beg for him to stop, it's why he's removed the gag, do not beg.

But I cracked. I screamed for him to stop, for it to end. I screamed for him to just kill me instead. But he didn't.

It felt like an eternity before it stopped, before he was finished. And I stood there, still blindfolded, sobbing hysterically, before I felt myself being dragged away by unknown hands.

Harry and Ron had eventually rescued me. I did not know how long I had been captive. I do not remember much of the rescue; I was fatigued, starved, nearly comatose. But eight and a half months later, I was laying in my bed at home, holding my precious Godric, whispering over and over that he would never have to worry about the cruel dangers in this world. Mommy would always be there to protect him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

I stand beside the old elm tree, the one on the far edge of the backyard, the one that marked my jump into this nightmarish world. I have made my decision. I know what I am going to do now to make them stop.

I wonder if my mental faculties have left me permanently. These hallucinations, these living nightmares, they are taking a toll on my being. I find any way possible not to be alone. They don't disappear when I am in the company of others. The corpses, the blood, the flames. They are still there. They are always there. But to have someone else beside me, especially someone that understands, it takes my mind off of focusing on the gruesome scenes that play before me. This is why I have sought solace in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange.

She's entirely mad, I am aware of this. But how much further do I have to go before we are equals? She spends the night with me sometimes. She's a married woman, but I do not seem to respect the sanctity of life anymore; why should I respect something as trivial as marriage? It keeps my body and mind occupied, and that is all I really focus on anymore.

The lights are off in my childhood home. The wards were easy to break. I guess part of me hoped that a new Fidelius Charm had been cast on the home when I left, that there was a new Secret Keeper, and I would not be able to find the home. But here it is before me, no candlelight, complete silence. Besides the screams that never seem to stop echoing in my ears, of course.

It is nearly 3 AM. My hope is that everyone is asleep, that I can slip inside, do what must be done, and leave without complication. No one at the Manor knows I am here. Will I tell Bellatrix later? I see the leaves of the old oak tree in the back yard waving in the breeze above the house. I feel nothing.

I make my way into the home. The door is unlocked. Have they been foolish? Or does my mother hope I will return home? I can never return for good. No, I can never bring my nightmares home.

I walk up the stairs silently. I look over into my old room at the top. The door is open, the bed spread is ruffled. Has someone been sitting there? Was it my mother?

I see Rose's door. The little name plate I painted for her for her sixth birthday glittering in the wand light. Does she know the truth? I actually feel something like shame at the thought that she does. This is not the time to become sentimental.

I stop in front of the door of my destination. Are they asleep in there? What will I do if they are not? I am reckless. Or is it desperate?

I open the door. Not a creak from it. Slither inside. 'Slither.' Such an appropriate verb.

There is only one person in the bed before me. I see the mass of messy red hair. Where is my mother?

I cross the room quietly. Stand by the window, look out toward the oak tree. I spot her. She is seated in our spot, looking out toward the field behind the backyard. She is hugging herself, and her mouth is moving. Who is she talking to? She doesn't realize she is covered in blood, and the tree beside her has gone up in flames. That's because it isn't real.

"I knew you would come for me." That damn emotionless voice penetrates me like a knife in my spine. I turn around. He is sitting upright in the bed, watching me. His eyes widen as he sees my face. Have I changed that much? He doesn't have his wand. How strange. I raise mine. We stare at one another. My stomach churns as a nasty bird of prey begins ripping off the flesh of his face, puncturing an eyeball with its beak, clawing at the bare chest, the blood flowing like little streams, staining the white bed sheet. He doesn't even seem to realize it.

"What will your mother think?" He breaks the silence. Says the one thing that could chip through the ice surrounding my erratic heart, piercing through the flesh, my chest filling with a painful warmth. No. No, he is not going to get to me. I try to find a way to explain to him why I must do this. Explain to myself. The nightmares, I must get rid of the nightmares. But it comes to me. How I can forgive myself for hurting my mother in this way.

"She didn't protect me from you." And as I say it I know it is the sole reason I am able to do this. The reason why I will be able to forgive myself for causing her the pain she will experience in a few hours. It is her fault.

He's still staring at me. At least I think he is. His face is just a skull now. Maybe the bird was trying to make this easier for me. Remove a face, like he is already a corpse. I can kill a corpse.

"Avada Kedavra."

* * *

I remember finding his body. I remember screaming. Harry rushing in, holding me as the hysteria kicked in. Ginny breaking down beside me. The children. My poor Rose and Hugo. I held them so close as we all sat on the floor, trying not to look at the corpse sitting upright in bed.

_ I forgive you_. The words were carved into the headboard. They have been burned into my eyelids. Every time I close my eyes I see his handwriting.

Harry was angry. Godric had killed Ron. He did not understand the meaning of the words. I understand them.

Ginny has stepped down from the podium. She is walking toward me now. I stand, allow her to embrace me, feel her tears on my cheek. I am not crying. I have no tears left.

It is my turn to talk. Talk about my husband. Talk about his death as though I didn't lose the two men I loved most in my life.

I am standing at the podium now. I am looking out at all of our closest friends and family. All of the people who I love and cherish in my life. I see the tear stained faces of my little girl and boy gazing up at me. The grief stricken faces of Harry and Ginny, holding each other, waiting for me to speak. And all I can think about are those words. _I forgive you_. I am hit with a set of claws driven into my chest by a charging beast. It was not Godric who killed Ron, it was not Ron who made Godric into a monster.

It was _I_ who failed.

It was _I_ who did not protect my little boy.

Godric may have, but can _I_ ever forgive myself?

* * *

A/N: There is a sequel I will be posting shortly. It is entitled _Liberation _and takes place seven years later. It is roughly the same length, and I already have it completed so regular updates can be expected. Feel free to review; this is my first horror fic, and I'm eager to hear opinions.


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